A picture-postcard day, illustrated with a sun blowing warmer than the slight breeze, so slight that everything around us looks like details of a photograph... of a picture postcard.

I, therefore, write you of the day. As I don't know you, it is much easier this way, avoiding getting into intimacies that, even if of first or even lesser degree, should be saved for those whom we already know ... at the very least... a little.

And it's not so much the words. Moreover, I have a cumbersome and uncontrolled handwriting, and I need space to spread it out. A postcard doesn't let me write much, even if violating, to the limit of what is doable, the place reserved for the inexcusable address...

In fact, the great pleasure is hidden in the object itself.  It wouldn't even be necessary a text; just a simple and sequential Dear; street, nr., post code, country and the great adventure would be launched.

The rest is printed on the paper, be it the cheesy photo of a cheesier sunset gilding some cliffs, which, nonetheless, makes one wish we were there;  the view of the city; a monument; a tile detail; the reproduction of the work of art and - oh, pleasure of pleasures - the lick on the sugary back of the magnificent stamp, which will buy its right to travel.

But sending a postcard can be  a hard goal to achieve, these days...

Not long ago, on a summer trip that included Belgrade, I searched hard, as I always do in a city of the countries I visit, in kiosks, street shops, supermarkets, everywhere I went, for the desired polychrome cardboard rectangle, to no end.

Belgrade, the capital of Serbia, the ex-capital of Tito's Yugoslavia, does not have a postcard for sale anywhere? Is such a thing possible?

I'm waiting for someone to write from there and prove me wrong.

That's why I joined Postcrossing!